


Work.

by sneaqui



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bottom-ish Eames, M/M, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:37:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneaqui/pseuds/sneaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames does a striptease for Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bauble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/gifts).



> Written for [bauble](http://bauble.livejournal.com/) as a gift for the Inceptiversary Scavenger Hunt! I hope you enjoy it, m'dear! <3
> 
> Beta-ed by [immoral_crow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/immoral_crow).
> 
> The song Eames is dancing to is [Help Me Lose My Mind by Disclosure](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TBW9VEE29W4). SO QUALITY.

When he’s not grinding against a mark in a club or faking his way through a salsa, Eames dances like a boxer. Broad shoulders curved inward, back bowed, fists and forearms held up in front of his chest.

Arthur stops dead in the entrance to their kitchen when he catches sight of him, bobbing and weaving in front of the dining table, several unfinished passport pages laid out in front of him on its surface. His bare feet make a soft _swish swish_ as he slides them back and forth along the tile floor, nodding his head on two and four.

Arthur smiles and pulls his lips in between his teeth in order to keep himself from making any sound. Eames has to be either drunk or feeling punchy in order to move and allow himself to be moved by a piece of music, and Arthur knows that Eames never drinks while working. He’s likely sleep deprived and/or high off his ass from inhaling the glue and ink fumes currently filling their apartment.

Arthur crouches down to lower his bag to the floor as quietly as possible and sneaks across the kitchen toward Eames. He takes up watch in front of the refrigerator, leaning one shoulder against it and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Eames - being the one person that Arthur can’t sneak up on - freezes for a split second and then resumes his lazy sway, crouching lower and putting his hips into it, a small tight swivel that only hints at their possible circumference. He glances over his shoulder at Arthur and smirks. “Are you going to join me? Or are you going to stand there and watch?”

“I was thinking I’d just stand here and watch you,” Arthur says, breaking eye contact with Eames for just a moment to give his body a quick but pointed once-over.

Eames’ smile widens, and he hooks a foot around a chair that’s tucked against the dining table, pulls it out and swings it around in one swift move so that it’s sitting in the middle of the room, facing his back. “May as well get comfortable, then,” he says, “I’m about to.” His hands come up to his throat, and his thick fingers gently slide the buttons on his shirt out of their holes.

Arthur takes his time walking to his appointed seat, watching the muscles in Eames’ shoulders shift as they move beneath his lavender dress shirt. He sits, puts his hands in his pockets and spread his thighs. “How much work do you have left to do?” It can’t be much; Eames has no qualms about dismissing Arthur with a grunt and a wave of his hand when he’s right in the middle of something, regardless how long it’s been since they’ve seen each other.

Eames tucks the toe of one foot behind the heel of the other and executes a neat turn. He sidles forward and stops just in front of Arthur, almost but not quite close enough to touch. “Deadline isn’t for another forty-eight hours,” he says. “I have some time to spare.” He slips his thumbs beneath his suspenders, twists his torso so that his shoulders shift out from underneath them. He moves as he normally would when getting undressed, not so much exaggerating his movements as drawing them out, giving Arthur the opportunity to fully appreciate something he usually sees every day-- but hasn’t seen in the last six weeks.

Arthur pulls his hands out of his pockets, turns them palm-up in a gesture part entreaty and part capitulation. “Come here,” he says to Eames, voice deep but thready.

Eames smirks down at him and shuffles barely an inch closer, strong thighs open and right at Arthur’s eye-level. He slips out of his shirt, tosses it to the side of the room. “Miss me, did you?” he asks.

“Oh, of course. It was torture not having you there to question every decision I made.” Telling the truth - that being away from Eames for more than a month is the definition of shitty - may be the smarter way to go if he wants Eames naked and in his lap anytime in the near future, but Arthur isn’t about to let Eames’ teasing go unchallenged.

Eames just laughs and says, “Admit it. You were bored without me there to nag you.” Before Arthur has the chance to answer in the negative, Eames grabs the hem of his vest and lifts it up and off with one quick pull, exposing the breadth of his chest. All hard-earned muscle rounded out by the soft curves of his belly and pectorals. His nipples tight and peaked.

Arthur’s cock begins to fill, and the muscles in his thighs and pelvis twitch helplessly. “ _Eames_ ,” he breathes.

“Yes, love?” Eames flicks open the button on his pants, pulls down the zip to reveal the outline of his cock, hard and straining against the blue cotton of his briefs.

It takes all of Arthur’s considerable willpower not to lunge forward and yank the cotton down so that he can get his mouth on it. “Fuck,” he bites out. “What do you want me to say? That I missed you? Of course I fucking missed you.”

Eames smiles down at him, sweet and fond. “That didn’t take long,” he observes. He yanks his pants and briefs off his hips, shimmies them down his legs and steps out of them. He slides into Arthur’s lap, rests his arms on Arthur’s shoulders and nods down at his cock bouncing between their bellies and says, “Go on, then.”

Arthur is so damn flummoxed that he got his wish that it takes a moment for reality to set in. And then he remembers that Eames has been just as deprived as he has over the past six weeks and is probably as ready to go off. Arthur spits in his hand a couple times to lube it up and wraps it around Eames’ cock, looking up to watch Eames shudder and close his eyes as he circles his thumb around the opening of his foreskin.

Eames whimpers and licks his lips, his hips pulsing in a quick rhythm that drives his cock into the tight shaft of Arthur’s fingers. Every thrust rubs his ass against Arthur’s cock, stroking him through his pants. Arthur wraps his free hand around Eames’ hip, pushes up into the friction and starts babbling, “You should come-- come with me. This next job. I need-- oh, _shit_...” Arthur swallows and takes a deep breath. “I need a forger.”

Eames groans, “I can’t.” He leans his forehead against Arthur’s and says against his lips, “There’s a job in-- _fuck_ , tighter. God yes, just like that, love. There’s a job in Barcelona. Art transportation. I owe Marco a favor.”

Arthur digs his fingernails into the flesh over Eames’ hip bone. “Cancel it,” he growls, and just as he knew it would, his authoritative tone causes Eames to whimper. His cock pulses and leaks over the knuckle of Arthur’s thumb and his ass rubs more insistently against Arthur’s dick. Arthur presses his advantage. “Tell him you got a better offer.”

“Did I?” Eames pants.

“Y- yeah.” Arthur shudders. “Sixteen percent of the take,” he says, being generous. Ten to fifteen percent is standard for forgers after the extractor takes half.

“Twenty-five percent,” Eames says against his mouth, darting his tongue out to lick the wet skin just inside Arthur’s lower lip.

He grits his teeth and takes a deep breath, trying to still every muscle in his pelvis to keep himself from coming as Eames writhes against his dick. “Twenty percent. That’s my final offer.” As he speaks he moves the hand not wrapped around Eames’ cock across his lower back, slips a finger between Eames’ ass cheeks and rubs the pad of it along the skin just above his hole. 

Eames’ thighs tremble around Arthur’s, and he whines, “ _Fuck_. Twenty percent and I get to pick the next job after that.”

“Deal,” Arthur spits out and darts his head forward to bite Eames’ pectoral where it’s clenching against his bicep, smell the sweat that’s dripping out of his armpits and down his obliques. He slides two fingers further down the crack of Eames’ ass, circles the puckered ridge of his hole with a light pressure that he knows drives Eames crazy.

“Arthur,” Eames groans, drawing out the r, and Arthur feels his balls draw up where they’re rubbing against Arthur’s cock.

“Fuck yeah, babe,” Arthur says against his chest, pressing a kiss to his sternum, a nipple. “Come. Come on my chest.”

Eames lets out a protracted sob and does just that, his cock going rigid in Arthur’s hand and the vein along its underside pulsing as he paints Arthur’s tie with come. Arthur pumps him through it as he wraps his other hand around Eames’ hip and pulls his ass down onto his cock. He thrusts up into the weight and heat of Eames and comes, curling forward into Eames’ chest as shudders wrack his body.

Eames wraps his arms around Arthur’s back protectively and presses kisses to the top of his head. “You’re a crap negotiator, you know,” Eames says, sounding fond.

Arthur just smiles, content and says, “I really did miss you. Asshole.”

Eames laughs. “I know.”


End file.
